


Shadows of our Feelings

by Corycides



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, The Closer - Freeform, major crimes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:51:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5010652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When your old frat brother and ex-crush reaches out to you - a successful lawyer - for legal help, you don't have choice but to say yes. Right? If only to rub their noses in the fact of how awesome you are. Although when they're in prison for a variety of terrible crimes, maybe you should think twice. </p><p>Thing was, Jeremy Baker found bad decisions to be the most interesting ones.</p><p>Major Crimes/Revolution x-over</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows of our Feelings

**Author's Note:**

> Family Curse - Miles/Jeremy

 

The letter had been sitting on Jeremy's desk unopened for two days now. Like Schroedinger's cat, it existed in the limbo between decisions. Either he was going to open it or he was going to toss it in the recycling, but right now he had absolutely  no  idea which. Until he came down on a side, the letter got to lurk on his table like a bad smell.

 

Jeremy laced his fingers under his chin and rocked back in his chair, staring at the apparently inoffensive rectangle of cheap paper. It wasn't the first letter from the state pen - criminals didn't have much else to do but hold grudges and make license plates - but it was his first from an ex-frat brother and one-time completely hopeless crush.

 

The crush was  still hopeless of course. It was just that back in the day it had been because Miles was straight, and now it was because he was a imprisoned rapist and murderer...who was straight.

 

The thought of that nasty bit of business almost made Jeremy's decision for him. He grabbed the letter and was on the sweaty cornered verge of tossing it when a harried intern with a sweaty shirt collar - poor girl - came fluttering in about a client, on the phone, angry client. On the phone. All Jeremy had to do was let go of his grip on the envelope, but that one little bit of uncertainty earned the letter a reprieve. He tossed it back on his desk, sighed his way to his feet, and went to deal with the latest crisis.

 

In the end he opened it. Of course. Throwing it away was the wise course of action, and Jeremy  never  followed those sat nav directions. All the intern’s interruption had really done was save his dignity from going ferreting through the entire office’s garbage.

 

Or, at least, spared his dignity telling the intern to go and down it.

 

Envelope open, Rubicon symbolically crossed, Jeremy left the letter on the desk while he made himself an espresso. Carrying the small, designer egg-shaped cup back over to the desk, he sat back down and - finally - opened the letter.

 

It was hand-written. Jeremy was mildly surprised at how well he remembered Miles’ impatient, chicken scrawl script. The last time he’d seen it had been on the fridge, warning the frat brothers off his beer. Now it was on a sheet of lined paper, asking Jeremy for a very large favour.

 

The wise thing to do would be to say no. In fact, the wise thing to do would be to shred the chicken scrawl and pretend he’d never seen it.

 

Unfortunately, Jeremy leaned back and sipped his coffee thoughtfully, bad decisions were just so much more  interesting .

************

‘I  cannot believe that you are Miles Matheson’s lawyer,’ Captain Raydor said, pressing a finger to her temple as if she could pinch off an impending aneurysm. ‘You  are  aware of the crimes that man has perpetrated?’

 

Jeremy raised an eyebrow at her. 'I assure you, even if I resided in the most isolated and joyless place in the world - which from experience I can tell you is my home town of Green River, Utah - I would still know the rather nauseating details of his crimes against basic morality. Him and Scott Disick both deserve everything they have coming to them, I'm sure. That just isn't relevant to my current position. I'm not representing Mr Matheson, who has apparently decided to represent himself - because  that  always ends well. The special master - in this case - represents the clients that he is selling out.'

 

'The scumbags, rapists, and paedophiles,' she said coldly. 

 

He shrugged and spread his hands in an elegantly helpless gesture. 'Who are nevertheless entitled to enjoy client-attorney privilege. A bummer for the police, I know.'

 

She glared at him. 'Matheson tried to murder my son.'

 

Jeremy held up a finger, ring glinting. 'Allegedly. Also irrelevant to the legal processes in question, although as a private citizen I am glad the boy emerged unscathed.'

 

'Thank. You,' Sharon said icily.

 

'You're welcome,' Jeremy said blithely. 'I am sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, Captain, but your objections - understandable though they may be - mean nothing at this stage of proceedings. Despite the severity of Matheson's crimes, the judge has ruled that the combination of his wildly successful law practice and his unpleasantly intimate relationships with his unsavoury associates could prove fruitful. This will go on with or without me. The assumption is that it will just be easier with.'

 

Sharon took her glasses off, folding the legs in with careful precision, and set them on the desk. The cut smile on her lips was a threat in itself. 

 

'That does raise the question, why you, Mr Baker? Are you one of Matheson's unsavoury associates?'

 

Jeremy shrugged and straightened his cuffs absently, fingers toying with his cuff links. 'It is no secret, Captain. Miles Matheson and I were in the same fraternity at University. There was a school song and everything, although not one suitable for mixed company. I haven't spoken to him in years, but apparently of the available officers of the court with relevant experience, I was the most acceptable to him.'

 

Raydor steepled her fingers. 'This is some sort of trick on his part,' she said. 'During every previous interaction we have had with him, he expressed a twisted ideology that frames him as the defender of the downtrodden sex offender. Now, all of a sudden, he is willing to sell his fellow perverts out?'

 

‘Maybe the looming spectre of his mortality gave him a different perspective,’ Jeremy said. He stood up, adjusting his glasses on his nose. ‘Or maybe we just shouldn’t be disappointed when sexual deviants don’t have the courage of our convictions.’

 

He shot his sleeve back and checked his watch. ‘My first meeting with him is scheduled for the 22nd at 7pm, at my office. Whatever security measures you feel are necessary, my office will co-operate with.’

 

Sharon sat back, the chair creaking as her weight shifted. ‘And you had to look at your watch to confirm that?’

 

He gave her a dry smile and headed for the door. ‘It’s a  very  nice watch, Captain Raydor. What’s the point if no-one else gets to appreciate it?’

******

Liquorice and caramel lattes. The dinner of - well, maybe not champions, but definitely over-worked lawyers who had promised their husband to stop counting Cinnabon’s as a food group. Jeremy drained the sticky dregs of the coffee and tossed the cup into the bin.

 

Raydor’s security precautions were thorough, if disappointingly unaesthetic. Guards posted at every possible egress, the elevators locked down, and the security system slaved to a station in the precinct. 

 

‘Probably even have an old priest and a young priest on standby,’ Jeremy murmured to himself. He wiped his hands on a napkin and headed over to his desk, tapping his fingers on the polished wood as he second - or to be more accurate fifth - guessed his decisions. The phone rang and a gruff voice confirmed that it was too late to change his mind, Matheson was on the way up.

 

The shuffle should have comical, turning a predator into a waddling penguin. Jeremy’s attention wasn’t on the sneakers and shackles, it was on the expression of assured confidence that Miles was wearing and the hard glitter of wit in those dark eyes as he looked around.

 

It occurred to Jeremy that, despite all the security, Raydor underestimated Miles. She thought he was a monster, and monsters were common, appetite driven things. Miles might  be  monstrous, but he was nothing as simple as a monster. Monsters were predictable. It was a daunting thought.

 

Louie Provenza opened the door and sauntered through it, pulling his battered hat off and scratching his short crop of pale curls.

 

‘Jeremy,’ he said, glancing around the office. ‘Private practice treating you well?’

 

‘It’s a quid pro quo arrangement,’ Jeremy said mildly. 

 

The guards led Miles in and sat him down on a chair that was usually reserved for clients, cuffing him to the arm rests. They’d been in earlier and driven a heavy metal loop into his floor. He had been  assured  they would return it to pristine condition when this was all over.

 

‘Do not underestimate this man,’ Louie said. ‘He’s a pervert and a coward, but he’s smarter than he looks. He can have a pencil and a notepad, nothing else.’

 

‘Don’t worry about that,’ Jeremy said. ‘I bought a box of Crayola just for him.’

 

Louie laughed, shaking his head. ‘Can’t say I think this is a good idea, counsellor, but good luck. If he gets out of hand, or tries anything funny, give us a yell or hit the panic button.’

 

He turned to leave. Miles shifted in his chair, chains rattling. ‘Detective! How is that poor, young prostitute that your Captain took in? Doing well, I hope. Improving himself?’

 

‘Fuck you, Matheson,’ Louie growled. He stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

 

Alone at last. Jeremy looked Miles over.

 

‘Orange really  isn’t  your colour,’ he said. ‘You should have included a new uniform as part of your deal.’

 

Miles chuckled and ducked his head, rubbing his knuckle along the stubbled line of his jaw. ‘I was more worried with not getting my ass fried. How you been, Jeremy?’ His eyes dropped to the brooch on Jeremy’s lapel, the encircled silver M making his mouth twitch with something that might have been amusement, contempt, or anger. ‘You and Bass still got that second-hand BFF thing going on?’

 

‘I would love to dish,’ Jeremy said. ‘It’s just that I have this rule about sharing details of my private life with convicted rapists and murderers.’

 

Miles grimaced as if he tasted something unpleasant. ‘Convicted murderer,’ he said. ‘Alleged rapist. They called me the Butcher, not the Buggerer, of Beverly Hills.’

 

The urge to ask ‘how’ and ‘why’ rose up in Jeremy’s throat. The Miles he had known had been incisive, compelling, and intelligent. He’d been arrogant, and cruel in that clever, witty way of his sometimes, but nothing that would make you think he was guilty of the crimes levelled against him. Except, that was what every friend, co-worker, and family member of a freshly unveiled bad guy said. Unfortunately, they rarely introduced themselves with, ‘Hi, I’m Miles Matheson and I like killing women and keeping their panties in my glove box’. 

 

‘At least you got a good neighbourhood,’ Jeremy said. ‘It wouldn’t have been nearly as thrilling to be dealing with the Hacker of Hacienda Heights.’

 

Miles laughed. The sound made Jeremy’s mouth twitch in automatic response, caught despite himself by the man’s charm. He knew Miles had caught it, they both politely pretended he hadn’t.

 

‘Let’s get started,’ Jeremy said. He slid his glasses on, nudging them up the bridge of his nose, and flicked the folder the DA had sent over open. ‘Everett McCoy?’

 

Miles made a face. ‘He was actually just pissing,’ he said. ‘The children weren’t meant to be there. Boring. Harmless.’

 

‘And certainly more likely to learn to hold his water now,’ Jeremy said, putting a cross by the name. ‘Next then. Kendrick Jenkins?’

 

After three weeks it stopped feeling strange to laugh at Miles’ vicious, witty humour, or twitch every time the cuffs clicked against the arms of the chair. He even got used to stepping over the metal hoop set in the floor whenever Miles  wasn’t  there.

 

He even ordered in take-out. Although he justified that to himself using his increasingly unhappy at the coffee and sugar diet stomach. Eating Chinese over case files felt disorientingly like old times - until a cuff clinked or Miles said something so empty of empathy the psychopathy was impossible to ignore.

 

Piercing a chunk of battered pork with a chopstick, Miles performed the practiced dip and shove to get it into his mouth. He wiped sauce off his chin with the back of his hand. ‘Not going to appeal to my conscience and the inner goodness you know lies inside me? Beg me to save the next poor girl, about to meet a fate as crispy as this pork?’

 

Salted tofu and chili sauce tingled on Jeremy’s tongue. He washed it down with a drink of guava from a can.

 

‘Even when we were friends, Miles, I didn’t think you had a whole lot of inner goodness.’

Eating rice with chopsticks and cuffs was close enough to impossible to make it not worth the bother. Miles scooped up a sticky lump with his fingers, shoving it into his mouth.

 

‘When?’ he said. ‘Jeremy, are you trying to tell me that we aren’t friends? After you ordered my favourite?’

 

‘You’re a psychopath. You don’t have friends.’

 

‘I had Bass.’ Miles leaned forwards, putting the take out on the desk. Habit made Jeremy hiss with annoyance and lean over, shoving a notepad under the carton to soak up the grease. He didn’t even think about the situation, and the rules, until Miles grabbed his wrist. Hard fingers, still callused, dug in hard enough to make Jeremy’s bones ache. ‘We’re friends, Jeremy. You don’t want to be my enemy. Tell Bass he owes me one.’

 

It had been a long time since Jeremy was afraid of anything. Not since he was a skinny little gay nerd in Utah waiting for a growth spurt and longer reach on his punch. He’d thought he remembered the feeling, the iron taste of it in his mouth on a tense case, but he’d been wrong. This was fear.

 

‘For what?’ he asked, mouth dry and sharp with salt.

 

There was a pause, then Miles laughed and gave his best, sloping grin. ‘For twenty years of going steady. If I’d hung around that night, maybe it would have been you and me instead of you and him? Ever think about that?’

 

‘No.’

 

‘Liar,’ Miles breathed, eyes intent, and dragged Jeremy forwards until his long, heavy form was angled over the desk. 

 

His mouth was hard and tasted of batter and spices, his tongue taking advantage of Jeremy's aborted curse to delve into his mouth. It had been a lie, this had been something Jeremy had thought about once upon a fantasy or two. Not lately though, not for a long time. Days, at least - damn his confused libido and Miles' disturbingly convincing pretence of normal. 

 

There was a good excuse for not screaming - 'there was a tongue in my mouth, your honour.’ - but he would need to work harder on why he hadn't fought back, hit the panic button, or just smashed a lamp to make a noise.

 

Surprise mostly, some fear. The fact that Miles was a surprisingly good kisser, and - just for a second - it seemed wholly logical to conclude that a good kisser couldn't be a rapist and murderer. Why would they put in the hours to improve? Sophistry, of course. Jeremy knew better than that - usually.

 

Then Miles let go him, sitting back in the chair. His eyes were smoky with something like emotion, and his mouth was set in a self-satisfied smirk. His tongue chased the taste of Jeremy into the corner of his lips, as he sprawled as far as the shackles would let him.

 

‘Relax, Jeremy. You aren’t the type I like to hurt. So take your finger off the panic button.’

 

Stupid. Jeremy sat back, his stomach suddenly deciding that tofu was not nearly as easy to digest as he'd claimed. He was trapped in a room with a caged predator, and he'd acted like it was a tame guard dog.

 

'I think that is enough catching up on old times,' Jeremy said, voice sounding odd and brittle to his own ears. 'If you want to avoid the death penalty, you need to produce the information the police want. Not try and play games with me.'

 

Miles slouched, eyes hooded and whatever heat the kiss had woken in them gone, leaving them lizard cold. 'I know exactly what information I need to give the cops,' he said. 'Don't worry about that.'

 

Despite the scare, twenty minutes later Jeremy still found himself standing at the espresso machine waiting for it to spit out a tiny mug of wake up. It was habit, and most of the time Miles was a perfectly inoffensive, chained up guest. Well, throwing the coffee out wasn't going to make Jeremy any  more  alert and wary. 

 

He sipped the bitter liquid apprehensively, trying to find the enviable savoir faire that had carried him ulcer-free through a series of criminal trials. Except what he wanted was to talk to Bass, and that wasn't going to happen. Not about Miles. Never about Miles.  


 

'Can I use the bathroom?' Miles asked, interrupting Jeremy's fretting. 'That pork has gone right through me.'

 

'God no,' Jeremy said, pulling catty up over his shoulders like a shield. 'I know what they feed people in prison. You aren't using my bathroom, it's got its own private key. Call Louie, he can take you downstairs to use the admin one.'

 

Miles rolled his eyes. 'Private bathrooms, espresso machines in the office, and monogrammed litre bottles of water. Yet I'm the one they say might have a narcissistic personality disorder?'

 

'I'm good at my job and I work hard,' Jeremy said. 'If you had spent more time practicing law, and less time raping and murdering young women, you might have your own espresso machine too.'

 

Miles lifted his hands up as Louie and a tall young cop came into the room. He still had that oddly self-satisfied expression on his face.

 

'All work and no play,' he said. 'You should find time for a hobby, you'll be surprised how much fun it is.'

 

Later, as the news reports tallied up the dead and damaged and he tried to explain to Bass why he'd not mentioned working with Miles, Jeremy realised what Miles had meant about Bass owing him one. The tall young cop who'd taken Miles to the bathroom had been drowned in the toilet, stripped, and his identity used to walk Miles' out of the highly guarded building. Raydor's clockwork security protocols had only played into his hands.

 

It could have been Jeremy dead on the floor of his office, chopsticks shoved up his nose. The only reason he was alive and the cop dead, was because of a panic button and a psychopath's shallow capacity for affection. A chilling fact.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
